


The Past is a Dead Man and My Lover is a Crazed One

by jaegersimp



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Hospital, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Mild Sexual Content, Murder, Mystery, Narcissism, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, One-Sided Attraction, Past Sexual Abuse, Psycho, References to Depression, Romance, Sexual Attraction, Sexual Content, Unrequited Love, insane, psychotic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27215491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaegersimp/pseuds/jaegersimp
Summary: A seemingly normal asylum resting on the outskirts of town holds more than a dirty secret within its walls . . . and when a 24 year old woman abandons her old life to work there, she's assigned to a murderous man, and it becomes clear the two are more connected than they know. Navigating a field of mysteries, love life, and murderous thoughts, it's not going to be easy to uncover the truth. . . And this is no fairytale. Will she get a happy ending, or will everything go down in a deadly disaster?
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character(s)/Original Female Character
Kudos: 4





	1. The Departure

  
"Please, you have to trust me, guys." My voice was flat, dropping with every sentence; I was hardly paying attention to my parents. "I'm not the broken, fragile girl of a few years ago. . . I'm twenty-four. I know what I'm getting myself into."

If I stared hard enough, the walls of my family's living room seemed to be closing in by the second. I partly wished they would consume my body, leaving behind naught even a speck — such a fate seemed better than fidgeting under the gaze of my scrutinizing mother. 

When I'd come to the doorstep of my childhood home that morning, fresh out of a job and a college drop-out, my mother and father were shocked, to say the least. Having wanted to pursue a path in medicinal practices, it was thought obvious to them I wouldn't be back until Christmas from my almost-final semester. . . Then I explained a mental asylum by the name Mitchell's had accepted me into its ranks, and here we were. 

The job wasn't exactly to my kind of enjoyment—after all, who would want to work in a place of bleached white walls and patients who's screams slashed a rivet of fear through your heart? The place was right out of a horror movie, I'd assume, if only going off the name alone. However, every other place of work required more than I was willing to do — overnights, willingly submitting to chemical tests (though I was not sure that was entirely legal), just to name a few. 

My father, usually the level-headed, understanding one, was nearing an agreement. It had always been easy to bring him over to my side in discussions or discourses. He sighed, running a hand through his hair— which wasn't much, save for thinning grey strands. "Dear, is this really what you want to do? I mean, have you any funds set up, in case this new. . . career, as you might call it— doesn't work out?"

A relieved smile crossed my lips. "I do. The money from my previous part-time job, as a barista. Like you suggested years prior, I saved most of my paychecks. In addition, you are well aware I only attended that university on a scholarship. . ." I cleared my throat, almost sheepishly. "And I've already payed for rent, for a small apartment near the asylum—it's not in the greatest condition, for the price I paid, but I believe it will do nicely for the time being."

He slowly nodded, and turned to help my mom off the couch; her weak knees barely able to support her. She, of course, was silently weeping, despite me being visibly disgusted by the sight of her tears. She and I were never close, really. . . especially since my memory blackout of a few years ago. Now that time of my life was incredibly weird. 

"You—you present a valid argument for wanting to leave. . . You're a legal adult, we can't stop you, even if you're being completely foolish,” she hissed, trying to seem strong and the dominant parent.

I flinched slightly, but shrugged. "Thank you. Was agreeing really all that difficult? All it took was a simple yes." Leaning down, I grasped the handle of my suitcase, walking over to the door and slipping on my shoes. "Oh—" I halted, looking back "—and thank you greatly for the breakfast. I'll call in a few hours, you have my promise." Shoving down the emotional tears (thanks to racking nerves), the door closed with a soft thud behind me, as I left behind the only people who loved me.

ˠ

It wasn't until three hours later—hours spent cursing bad drivers and craving sweet, sweet caffeinated drinks—that I finally arrived at my place of establishment: a small, barely livable apartment on the fourth floor of a complex, hidden away on the outskirts of a busy street. Across the street was a neighborhood of houses up in the hundred-thousands of dollars price range; they were the kinds of houses you'd get glimpses of in magazines or nice-living television channels. 

The first time I'd visited, a few months ago to drop off essentials, one of my roommates, Clarissa—an overeager girl with blonde pigtails and a heart of charitable properties—had been visibly shocked at the stark contrast between my apartment complex and. . . the others. To make matters worse, she'd almost fell down an entire flight of stairs, having tripped over a loose nail on our way down from bringing boxes.

She never spoke to me when we returned to the university; she moved out of our shared room a few days later. I didn't care; she was annoying in the wee hours of a morning, anyway, and it gave me more time to catch up on dramas after pulling all-nighters studying.

Getting out of the car; resisting the urge to divert my gaze across the road, I hoisted a box labeled "clothes" out of my Honda Civic (aka Roxanne)'s trunk. After I travelled inside the apartment complex's lobby, greeting hello to the old doorman, I stepped inside my place once more, and was greeted by the smell of lavender upon crossing over the threshold—curtesy of a dozen air fresheners to hide the smell of old wood.

Immediately, I got started on making trips from Roxanne to inside, taking only an hour and mighty willpower. When I finished, I dug through the boxes of my clothes: precious items of apparel gathered from many thrift stores—ones ranging from shady shops hidden away, to vast buildings devoid of happy faces. Every scarf, shirt, or even dress once belonged to someone, and I took it upon myself to not treat any piece with ill regard.

It took what felt like forever, but I finally got done arranging my closet; setting up my PlayStation 3 and television; hanging the occasional fake plant and putting away plastic Tupperware in the kitchen cupboards. 

Glancing at the small clock I bought from a dollar store, the time read 4:20 pm. Surprisingly earlier than I expected, but it was close enough to dinner hour that I decided to order a pizza. "A few slices wouldn't hurt my diet, right?" I asked myself aloud, answered by only the silent ticking of the clock's hands and beeping of cars outside. "No, of course not. Even so, pepperoni is worth any sacrifice."

On the small home phone atop my kitchen counter, I called Diago’s pizza—the best in the area, according to research—to order, and to pass the time, I sprawl out on the floor, setting up my Windows 7 computer (which just released a few months ago, thankfully I was able to get ahold of the new software release) to check my email. The same jarring message rested at the top of my inbox, a reply to one of my questions to Mitchell's asylum about my working hours:

Dear Akemi Hiroyushi,

In accordances to your previous question, your workdays are as follows:

Monday Through Friday: 7:00 am — 5:00 pm.

Lunch hour + break (everyday): 12:00 pm.

Sunday + Monday: 8:00 am — 6:00 pm.

We all look forward to welcoming you on Monday, October 26th, at 7:00 a.m. We expect only the best, therefore please arrive promptly on the dot. In case you have any wandering thoughts as to who your patient is, you have been assigned with someone deemed suitable for a beginner with only part - time experience in university or college. . .

Your patient is Kagami Ganril Fujimoto. 

Age:Twenty-five. 

Sex and Age: Male; 25 years

Married, Single or Widowed: Single

Rank, Position or Previous Occupation (if any): High school student

Religious Persuasion: Church of Christ, Hamilton County; Christianity (prominent)

Reason(s) for detainment: Murder of parental guardians (suspected, not proven in court of law)

Mental Illness(es), Tested: Major Depressive Disorder; Generalized Anxiety Disorder; Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Mental Illness(es), Suspected: Narcissistic Personality Disorder; Minor Schizophrenia 

Age of First Attack: 16 years

We have informed your patient of his new caretaker. Do not forget to check out our asylum clubs and memberships, giving you more opportunities!

Kind regards, 

Delilah. 

"Kagami Fujimoto. . ." I muttered to myself, ignoring the rumbling of my stomach which longed to be filled with greasy foods, "he sounds like a challenge. 'Deemed suitable for a beginner,' my ass. They clearly aren't going to go easy on me. . . Taking care of him will be the perfect chance to prove that I'm ready, I hope."


	2. Meeting

Clouds carrying blankets of heavenly, refreshing rain covered the sun overhead, keeping it to themselves, leaving the rest of the world to hide away in shivering jackets and raincoats, lest they be pelted by the unexpected shift in weather.

Hidden behind a massive courtyard dotted with patrolling guards; safely secured by a massive, obsidian coloured front gate; disguised by the ominous fog surrounding it, sat Mitchell's Mental Asylum. The three-story tall building contained no windows, offering no passer-by the opportunity for a curious glimpse, save if they ventured inside themselves—and if any patients should try and escape, two doors made of bulletproof glass would stop them.

Having spent half the night conversating with my parents and ordering paint for my apartment's walls, my eyelids were half-lidded and struggled to keep open, which only added difficulty to taking in the entire Asylum's appearance.

I clipped my ID card—freshly printed and given to me by a security guard at the gate, named Franklin—to my chest pocket, scarcely sparing a glance down at my apparel. The asylum had rules on what caretakers could wear. As they say, scholars of the insane have no attention or care for personal belongings and beliefs. . . Therefore, prohibited items included heeled shoes, see-through clothing, low-cut or baggy shorts, and the like. Thankfully I didn't own any of those items, anyway, so I opted for regular office-type clothes: a polo shirt, blazer, cigarette trousers, and ballet flats—and, making sure to keep the embarrassing scar I had hidden, I wrapped a bandage around my torso, which turned out to be a mistake, for they brushed ever-so-slightly and uncomfortably underneath my shirt.

There was always an option, one guard said, for caretakers (or "orderly," as I discovered they call it) to wear scrub-type over clothes, such as a real hospital would, but I politely declined. 

"Okay," I murmured to myself, following behind another caretaker—excuse me, orderly—as he entered the front doors. "You can do this."

The orderly approached the front desk, where a woman with long, dull hair and sunken eyes looking to be no younger than I, typed away on a keyboard. He said something about checking in, and she took down his name, and inserted some card into a machine. He departed on his merry way, and I stepped up.

"Good morning," she greeted politely, false cheerfulness clear in her tone. "Here to check in?"

I nodded, sucking in a breath, and gave her my name. It came out in a short ramble, to which she asked me to repeat it five times before writing it down. "I've never seen you before. First day?"

I nodded again in reply. She reached into a file cabinet beside her desk, shuffling through until she pulled one out, handing it to me. I took it with slightly-trembling hands, giving her a quick smile.

"The first few days are always a little tough. Just give it some time, sweetie, and you'll do just fine. Refer to the physical file I've given you if you've ever got a question about him."

I gave her a polite, rushed goodbye; my thoughts were in a jumble. The asylum's interior was surprisingly vast, though I was correct: the colour white was enough to make one believe they'd died and arrived in the afterlife. Patients shuffled about with their caretakers leading them, some calm, others tired and looking dejected. A few were. . . Slightly more enthusiastic.

Like a mall, the stairs were three yards wide—approximately, I'd never been good with on-sight math—and were set in the lobby's middle. Few elevators were scattered about at the walls, but I opted to travel up each step, all the way to the third floor, where Mr. Fujimoto's room was.

On my way, I passed a young boy, looking about ten young years, who snarled and gnashed his teeth at me as he walked by. His hair was ruffled, like he hadn't carefully brushed through in months, and he wore hand restraints, held by his caretaker, a young woman who smiled apologetically at me.

My heart ached for that poor fellow. He didn't look to be in the best condition. . . I shuddered, listening to his snarls grow quieter, and as the minutes passed, I came to a stop at the door labeled B69—which, according to my file, was Mr. Fujimoto's.

The hallway light above me flickered, casting a dark shadow on the door.

I took out the key hanging on a hook by the outside, and it didn't go in the door's lock easily, due to my shaking hands. Before backing out was an option, I quickly opened the door and pressed it close behind me.

My heart was pounding, but from fear or excitement, I couldn't be sure. The room I entered was a decent size, with walls devoid of any personal attachments, except for the usual "hang in there" cat poster, and a tiled floor. A steel bed was pushed against the left back corner, its blankets folded neatly. The only person stood in the room's center, and he turned upon hearing me.

He was a tall, slender man, with gangly, yet muscular limbs revealed by the short-sleeved, navy blue shirt he wore. His lips were pale, chapped and thin; they stretched apart in a sideways, wolfish smirk—one that would make any normal woman swoon, without a doubt.

His eyes roved around the room, almost to tease me, before they met my gaze, squinted and amused—giving off an intensity that almost made me flinch.

His body moved, and he took four graceful, languid steps towards me, stopping just short of a foot away. I tilted my head, staring up at him, simultaneously tightening my grip around his file. Now that he was closer, I could see—his eyes were a swirling sea of hazel; a mixture of dark greens and brown clashing together, creating roaring seas of colour that blended in perfection. 

"Well now, isn't this peculiar?" He said in a throaty, deep voice, with a tilt of his head to the side. He rested his hand on my shoulder, the warmth of my skin a stark contrast to his cold fingers. "This is a delightfully wondrous addition to my bleak morning."

I cleared my throat. "Right. You may be confused. My name is Akemi, or, you can call me Ms. Hiroyushi, as I will be addressing you by your last name, as well. I'm. . . I'm your new caretaker — that's all."

Mr. Fujimoto's eyes widened, and he abruptly snatched his hand back, letting his arms hang at his sides. "Caretaker. . . My mistake. I thought—ah, no, it don't matter." He quickly smiled again. "Though I won't deny it, you're pretty cute, little lady."

"Doesn't. It doesn't matter, not—oh, never mind. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir, and. . . I formally request you don't murder me when my back is turned, and we'll get along just fine!" How perfect of me to defer to using jokes in a frightening situation . .

He let out a soft chuckle. "Yeah, yeah, don't get your panties in a twist about it, doc. I haven't laid a hand on a woman since 2000. Even then, 's not as if I'd want to, honest."

_2000\. . . That was. . ._ I did some quick mental math in my head, thankfully only having to subtract nine. He'd been in since he was 16. . . _Nine_ whole years. Two more months and it would be 10. It was jarring to think I'd finished high school and gone through almost four years of college, all while he was in a mental hospital.

Then I realized what he said, and wrinkled my nose. "Hey! Please don't say such an inappropriate comment!" Ignoring his snickering laughter and my cheeks burning in embarrassment, I crossed my arms. "Okay. I'm here to help you, you know."

He waved an arm in dismissal, turning to wander across the room. "I don't need help, little lady. I already know what I am."

_So do I. You're a murderer. . . Supposedly._ It was hard to grasp he had so many different illnesses listed in his file; the man in front of me didn't look. . . Well, like he would kill someone. Unless you count flirting someone to death a federal offense. . . Then again, I'd known him for less than ten minutes.

"Look. I'd like us to be able to work together, here. I help you get better, and you. . . Focus on wanting a better life for yourself, and helping me to understand why you're really here."

He paused, glancing back at me with a quirked brow. "So, what you're saying is. . . You. . want. . to _use_ me." He slowly stalked forward, curling his fingers into fists, getting closer with each word spoken. "You want to pry your little fingers into this head of mine and find out what dark secrets I could possibly possess." He'd stopped, and was inches away from my face, a furious expression on his face. "Trust me, Ms. Hiroyushi. . . You don't want to know."


	3. Markus

Needless to say I almost pissed my pants that morning. Mr. Fujimoto—the file was correct, apparently, he was not one to be trifled with. After our brief psychological quarrel, I'd quickly apologized, and sat down on the floor with him to discuss the daily schedules. Apparently, he'd not been allowed to travel alone to the mess hall in four years, and didn't offer up a reason why. Which meant I would escort him. And, since I'd been in such a hurry that morning, my lunch was still on my kitchen table, lonely and forgotten.   
  


So, my stomach and bowels silently unhappy, I slapped some restraints on Mr. Fujimoto, and we'd made our way to the mass hall. Along the way, other patients were being led out, and Mr. Fujimoto carelessly pointed out who some of them were, while I payed little attention.

"That kid there," he said on the second floor, motioning with his head towards a teenager with shaved hair, "is really weird. You wouldn't believe it, but. . . He's got voices in his head." 

I glanced up a him, watching his lip curl downwards in distaste, and his nose twitch once; his whole face looking incredibly cross for a split second, as if he was remembering, or thinking something, and then it was gone, and he smiled cheekily at me. "Oh. More interested in me than him, eh? Don't blame you, girls like the bad types."

"Actually, that's bikers or whatever," I replied, facing forward again as to not trip down a step as we descended, and ignoring his grammar. One couldn't blame him, he'd not been in school for years. "Not possible murderers. Though there have been some cases. . . But you shouldn't worry about romance, not here."

He sighed. "Whatever, little lady. You need to relax. . ." His voice drifted off; his face resumed that weird twitching thing, and we walked through the doors to the mess hall.

It resembled a regular school cafeteria, with tables lined out and patients sitting at every-other seat; guards walking around, their hands on their holsters; food servers dishing out trays of disposable plastic and little foods, and no plastic silverware. 

I walked with Mr. Fujimoto over to the serving line, and we slowly moved forward behind a balding old man and his slightly older patient, who smelled strongly of peppermints for some odd reason. The menu sloppily written on a whiteboard read today's food read: "Vegetable Pizza." My stomach rumbled at the thought of delicious cauliflower. . . Maybe feta cheese. . . Spinach, too.

To my disappointment, it simply meant regular pizza without the sauce, or any topping besides cheese. 

"So. . . Isn't this basically a quesadilla?" I asked the server, balancing the end of Mr. Fujimoto's restraints in one hand and his tray in the other, while he watched amusedly. "You know, tortilla and cheese?" I'd never had one myself, but one of my old college dorm mates, Louise, was obsessed with eating them, day and night, despite her being lactose intolerant. 

"What are you, the health inspector?" The server scoffed, shaking his head. He waved us onward, and I grumbled to myself, escorting Mr. Fujimoto to an empty spot. He plopped down, legs spread, and I sat beside him, undoing one restraint so he could eat.

He licked his lips, and picked up a slice, practically inhaling greedily it without chewing. I watched with slight unease, and a red mark around his wrist caught my immediate attention. 

"These things — is it hurting you?" I asked, fingering with the loose restraint. I had to raise my voice, so he could hear over the yelling of a patient. "It's left a mark; doesn't it hurt?"

"Oh, these old things?" He didn't even glance at his wrist, focused entirely on eating. "Doesn't bother me, I can barely feel it. 'Sides, constant pain, isn't that a good thing? Reminds me I'm human. That I'm still here."

If anything, he was reminding—no, _reassuring_ , himself of humanity. 

But I didn't think medications were enough to make a man want to feel pain just to live. Something was. . . Suspicious about him, and I had research to do.

**ˠ**

An hour later, Mr. Fujimoto was lounging around in his room—staring at his cat poster no doubt— and I was on my break. Having asked a random caretaker what they enjoyed doing during their hour-long period of peace, I was directed to the asylum's library, which is where I then hurriedly rushed to. 

The library was spacious, about twice the size of my entire apartment, with aisles of bookcases that reached the ceiling, every shelf filled to the brim with books of every subject they could offer. Two crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, adjourned with glimmering crystals—one of which caught the light of another, almost blinding me (and it was clear where most of the asylum's money went). 

No windows were seen, but the only light needed filtered in from the hall, and the chandelier. Under my feet, the carpet—a nice change from tile flooring—was a soft crimson colour; around the library, there were four long mahogany tables with desktop computers. 

With the assistance of a young bookkeeper, I was able to slowly log into the asylum's database, with my employee-given password. However, since Mr. Fujimoto was my current and only patient, I was only able to see his files, admittance order, medical documents, etc. 

Keeping an eye on the clock, I was then focused on researching with the computers; scrounging through books and any information available to me. My goal was to try and research any bit; every scrap of details on his specific mental illnesses that I could within a one-hour period. My eyes skimmed over research papers written by esteemed scientists and psychologists; philosophers spewing otherworldly nonsense on the human mind; a few biographies of renowned famous persons with a disease of the mind. 

They all posed important questions about humans and their actions—such as how a single imbalance could cause a person to tip overboard into a sea of intrusive, violent thoughts. What an upbringing could do to a child's brain development: the typical nature versus nurture. I even dabbled in a bit of Freud's writings, and how he was convinced the mind's mental depths were distorted and murky; how some thoughts could be repressed, and that one could use certain methods to recover lose fragments of memories people sought to forget.

His writings gave me an idea: what if Mr. Fujimoto, on the offhand he wasn't just making a first impression, had repressed memories? Could that be why he was deemed innocent under trial after his parents' death? If I had more time to research I could probably point some clues towards him, and his guilty self. 

In the end, after an hour, I had an important question. _What_ could have driven Mr. Fujimoto to kill his parents, if he was guilty. . . They could have been many things: abusive, neglectful, maybe downright cruel. Or maybe, like scientists suggested, there was a chemical or hormonal imbalance in his brain; maybe he experienced trauma to the head as a young child he didn't remember. . 

Worn-out, a quick glance at the clock told me I had five minutes left of break. Sighing, I dropped the files back onto the desk in front of me.

"Not so much luck finding what you need?" A male voice chuckled from somewhere behind me, different from the bookkeeper's.

I turned around, subtly surprised, to say the least, that someone was watching me. Leaning against the bookshelf at the back of the room was a slightly darker-skinned, bespectacled man, with a smug look on his face. His dark hair looked purposely ruffled; he had a dark blue blazer on, along win khakis, a white shirt, and leather shoes. 

The man took my silence as a yes, it seemed, though I only stared because I was confused. He uncrossed his arms, and slowly walked across the room until he was standing before me. "Well. . . this is awkward," he said, a slight British lilt barely noticeable in his words. "I've spent every day here for the past two months during my break, and I haven’t seen you around here before. Let me guess. . . You're new?"

I hesitated before answering. "Yeah, I am, actually. Today's my first day."

A jubilant smile graced his scholarly features. "Sweet. My name’s Markus. Markus Deliar, to be exact." He extended a hand, and I shook it firmly, wanting to make a good impression (as my father always reminded me to do).

"My name's Akemi. Weird, I know."

"Hmm, Akemi," He said thoughtfully, as if testing how my name sounded on his tongue. "No, not weird. That’s a nice name."

"Thank you," I replied, bring down on my lip that threatened to stretched into a please smile. "I suppose you have a nice name. . . As well."

He laughed lightly, his nose scrunching up as he did so. It kind of looked cute, I had to admit, though I got flashbacks to the old muppets show. "Well, thank you." He paused, snapping his finger, two rings brushing together with a 'clink!' "Say, how would you like to eat lunch together sometime? Or. . ." He gestured around the room with outstretched arms. "Study? Hah, I don't know. Whatever you want. . . L–lady's choice! Of course."

It took me a moment to reply. Was he referring to. . . A date? A man who is known for less than two minutes was already asking me on a–a study date? When it had taken me months to work up the courage for asking a person on a date in college? Damn, I was surprised.

"Ah, sure. I'd like that. Uh, we can—" In a spur of the moment, I leaned over and picked up a book left on the table by another worker, and read the title, "—read _Discipline and Punish_ by Foucault, if you want."

Markus raised an eyebrow, glancing from the book to me. "You want to. . . Discuss the evolution of torture and punishment; how they each—and separately, might I add—affect the body and soul, and reform the human mind? As a _first date_?" 

My mouth hung slightly open for a few moments, a sound of mixed confusion and agreement omitting through my lips; my shoulders lifting in a shrug. My cheeks were burning in embarrassment, and he startled me by laughing. "It sounds perfect! Nothing I love more than a good psychological discussion." He winked, resting one hand on the table and leaning his body weight against it. "So, can I have your home phone number? Email? Please tell me you have one, or I'll feel incredibly awkward."

"Don't worry, I do." I dropped the book on the table's surface, scrambling for a scrap of paper and pencil; scribbling my number _and_ email—just in case.

He accepted the scrap gratefully, a cheeky grin directed to me. "You should get back to your patient now, I bet. Lunch only lasts an hour, and it's practically one o'clock already, miss." I nodded, and he helped me gather up the books I read, and placed them where they belonged. 

"I'll expect a call from you tonight, then?" I asked, the two of us walking out of the library. My hands were a tad sweaty, so I wiped them against the sides of my trousers anxiously.

Markus winked again. "You know it. Expect it at exactly . . . Seven o'clock, okay? Unless you're busy."

"No, no, I'm not busy tonight."

He smiled warmly. "Great. I'll see you, then, Akemi."

We parted ways, and when he was out of sight, I practically skipped down the hall—like a happy schoolgirl, momentarily unknown to the unfortunate tragedy that would befall me soon enough.


End file.
